


14/2

by WaywardSpark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, Domestic Fluff, Don't copy to another site, Drinking Games, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mary is unimportant, Minor Injuries, Reichenbach Feels, Texting, Valentine's Day, switching POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 13:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17849915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSpark/pseuds/WaywardSpark
Summary: Eight Valentine's Days in John and Sherlock's lives from their first as flatmates to their first anniversary as a couple





	14/2

**Author's Note:**

> Very belated Valentine's fic. Better late than never!

**14th February 2010**

Day fifteen.

Sherlock doesn’t mean to count them. It’s defeatist, and pathetic, and definitely to be kept hidden from John at all costs. And yet, every morning when he sees John in the kitchen, boiling the kettle, in his dressing gown, yawning and glowing with contentment, or weary from a nightmare but determined to see the day through, the number pops into his head: day eleven as flatmates, twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

What day will it reach when John decides that he’s sick of him? That he’d prefer to get a stable job with a higher income to live on his own, to find someone else? He hopes never. Realistically, he predicts John will last a couple of months before getting restless. At least that’s what cases are for.

“Happy Valentines’ day, Sherlock,” John greets him with a smile when Sherlock comes out of his room. Good mood. No nightmares. He’s even cooking breakfast, if the smell of pancakes is any indicator.

“What’s so happy about it?” It’s a genuine question - Valentine’s day was never something he made any attempt to remember or to commemorate, with no long term partners at any point in his life - but John laughs and Sherlock’s stomach flips pleasantly.

“Nothing really. It’s a bit of a crap holiday. Felt in a good mood, though. I suppose with all the pink decorations and adverts on tv all the good cheer has to become contagious at some point.”

“Clearly,” he replies drily, collapsing onto the sofa, his bare feet hanging over the other side. “I’ll let you know I’ve caught it.” He’s hiding the urge to smile and his stomach rumbles with cravings for pancakes, but John doesn’t need to know that. Sherlock has recent learnt that just the right amount of sulking earns him the Hair Ruffle.

John chuckles. “That’s the spirit.” He passes by with Sherlock’s plate of food, hands it over, then as he returns to the kitchen, his hand reaches over to Sherlock’s hair -

Bingo.

He has just enough time to savour and preen under the touch before it disappears again, leaving his hair ruffled and a smile he almost doesn’t fight off.

Almost.

~

“I have an interview today,” John mentions casually as they have breakfast, sat on the end of the sofa with Sherlock’s feet poking at his thigh. 

“An interview? What for?”

“A job.”

“A _job?_ ”

“Yeah. I figured it was about time. I want to give my fair share of the rent too.” He looks over his at Sherlock to gauge his reaction: he’s frowning at his plate, stabbing at his pancakes with his fork. John saw it coming. Sherlock was already fairly suspicious at the idea of John interacting with anyone on the outside world, sulking on the sofa every time he went out for a pint with Greg or Mike at the weekend. It’s partially why John made him pancakes this morning to soften his mood. “You okay?”

“Fine. Of course. Just unexpected.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t had a job since I came home. But now finally feel motivated enough to get one. I have you to thank, really.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Before you, I didn’t really want to do anything except… wallow in self pity until my pensions ran out. I had no plans except to get through to the next day, and even then - well, it’s not the case anymore. Now I’m back on my feet. I have a nice flat, someone to talk to other than my therapist, and now I’m going to get a job.”

“...Ella suggested it, didn’t she.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “It’s true what I said, though. I do want one. But I can’t really imagine myself at a desk job.”

Sherlock exhales and smiles, as though relieved. “Well, if you want to deliberately sabotage your interview, I have a myriad of ways of getting people to never want to speak to me again.”

“Yeah, cheers.”

Self-sabotage turns out unnecessary. The job goes to some young nephew of the head of the clinic who has barely graduated medical school. He’s fairly relieved, if a little worried for his future patients. 

“You didn’t get the job,” Sherlock observes as soon as he enters the flat, his eyes still on his microscope. 

“Nope.”

“You’re… happy about it.”

“Yup. I guess it will be another few weeks of us staying at home and watching crap tv between cases.”

“Oh. Okay.” He can hear the smile in his voice, pleases and ever so slightly smug.

“That alright with you?”

“It’s not _not_ alright.”

“Good. Dinner tonight?”

“Yes.” 

“Fine.”

“Good.”

~

**14th February 2011**

“Lydia stood me up.”

“Oh no. How tragic.”

“Yeah. Something to do with me abandoning her for you two dates in a row.”

“Mmh.”

“A bit harsh to be honest. The first time was for a fairly dangerous serial killer. The second time you were in hospital because you fell in the bloody Thames.”

“Mmh.”

“You know what, I’m not sure it’s all worth it.”

“Worth what?”

“Dating. It’s not really compatible with - “

“With what? With me?”

“No, no, no. Well, yeah. But, the thing is, I like you. I like cases and going out on stakeouts at 2 a.m and stitching you up after a fight with a criminal. I think I rather like the idea of doing that for as long as possible. With you.”

“...Oh.”

“I might quit my job now. We’re getting more clients than ever now with all the newspapers and tabloids.”

"..."

“Well. Anyway. Fancy a bond night?”

“Not really.”

“Well, it’s happening anyway.”

“Ugh.”

“Don’t ‘ugh’ me, I’m heartbroken after my tragic breakup. I deserve this.”

“You’re really not.”

“Fine, I’m not. But movie-choosing rights go to whoever can name more than two films that isn’t a documentary.”

“I’m insulted. I’m the world’s only consulting detective, I am the first to perfect observation into an exact science, I have made various important inventions and discoveries in the field of chemical forensics, and I have a bloody mind palace! I think I can name a simple film.”

“Alright then. What did we watch last Thursday? The one with the archeologist and the boulder and the nazis.”

“...Alabama Jones?”

“Ha! At least you tried. James Bond it is.”

**14th February 2012**

Sherlock Holmes has been dead for nine months, two weeks, and four days. He’s officially moved out of Baker Street, stopped using taxi cabs, lost touch with many of the people he only knew through Sherlock; to all extent and purpose, there is nothing in his life tethering him to Sherlock. And yet it still hasn’t quite hit him that he’s really gone.

He still sees him sometimes, in a mop of curls in the queue at the underground, or in a long coat flapping in the wind, or in the memories found at the bottom of a whisky bottle. The latter is saved only for special occasions, when key dates approach that he can’t help but connect to Sherlock. He has it under control. Today just happens to be one of those days. 

He takes a swig and reminisces.

This time last year on Valentine’s day, John was planning on asking Sherlock out properly. He decided to quit his job, stop dating, show him that he’s available. _It’s all fine,_ indeed. This time he was sure it absolutely would be. No back-pedalling like the first time at Angelo’s, just waiting, subtle hints, testing the waters until the right moment came.

The Bond night was the first ‘test’, so to speak. Sherlock would have called it an experiment. John allowed himself to relax, to sit closer to Sherlock under the guise of sharing the popcorn bowl, to let his arm rest behind Sherlock while ‘stretching’. He hadn’t done that since he was fourteen, but it was a tried and tested move, and if Sherlock’s faint blushing and the occasional aborted eye contact was anything to go by, it was successful. Besides, the date was _fun._ Even with Sherlock yelling about the inaccuracies of the films, or rolling his eyes whenever James Bond started snogging yet another woman after twenty four hours of knowing her, it’s the best date he had had in a long time. Perhaps because of those things. 

He wanted to kiss him then and there, but he thought it would have been too much, too soon, too fast. If Mycroft was right about what he implied at the palace, John would have given him nothing less than the respect and time that he deserved.

They should have had more time.

He pours out another drink and waits for tomorrow.

~

Marco Roberto Alfonsi - aged 34, nephew of Lorenzo Alfonsi, the head of the Alfonsi Mafia family and underling of Moriarty - is currently lying asleep beside Sherlock, dead to the world. Exactly as planned. 

The snoring is not as planned, but he can just about live with it for the next twenty minutes or so.

Sherlock carefully extracts his arm from underneath Marco and climbs out of bed, putting on his discarded pants and shirt as he travels across to Marco’s coat on the floor. His phone is in its pocket, with little security except one four letter passcode: his birthday. Sherlock scoffs. Idiot, thank goodness he’s only seventh in line to that spot at the head of the Alfonsi table, otherwise he’d be genuinely worried for the state of the Italian Mafia. Still, he has the information he needs and Sherlock isn’t going to question when he has to do a little less work for it. In a matter of minutes, he has numbers, contact details, transcripts of key phone calls, and his next location, all downloaded onto his laptop. There’s nothing left to do now except pick up the rest of his clothes and leave. 

But first, a smoke.

He steps out onto the balcony of Marco’s flat that looks out onto Florence. There’s still some activity on the street below him, couples holding hands and friends laughing and groups of tourists chatting amicably, aglow in the lights and whatever spirit will possess everyone into celebrating Valentine’s day when the morning comes. Even with the presence of someone in bed behind him, he feels surprisingly left out. He clicks on the lighter - 

“Peter?”

He turns it off, jumping at the sound of the alias he gave Marco earlier that night. The man in question is now sitting up, the bedsheets rumpled around his waist. It’s a sight even Sherlock, who usually experiences little interest in these things except for ulterior motive, can appreciate. “Sorry,” he replies in Italian. “Go back to sleep. I just need some air.”

“You needed a cigarette.”

“Yes. Do you want one?”

“No. Can’t stand them. Even the smell is too much.” 

_Like John._ The thought slams through him unexpectedly, painfully, with a sudden reminder of just how far away from home he is and how long he has to go still. These last nine months have been hell, but he expects it will only get worse. He casts the thought aside for now and comes back inside, putting the lighter and cigarette away. “Look, I should probably go. I told you I was just passing by the city and I have a train to catch in a few hours.”

“Oh. So soon?”

“Well, I thought it would be easier to get it out of the way. You didn’t seem like the type to let men stay for breakfast,” Sherlock replies, putting on the charming smile that had won Marco over earlier with ease.

“Usually, no. But with very pretty men such as yourself…” In the dark, Sherlock sees Marco’s eyes travel up and down him as he trails off, somewhat appreciative, mostly hungry. He resists the urge to blush and button up his undone shirt; _Sherlock_ is alarmed by sex, the idea of being wanted and wanting in return, being so vulnerable and exposed; but _Peter_ is completely nonchalant about the whole thing. This is little more than an undercover mission.

“Sorry. This pretty man has elsewhere to be.” And because Peter enjoys etiquette and small talk, he leans over and kisses Marco on the cheek. “Thank you for a lovely night. You were just what I needed.” He certainly had the information he needed, and Sherlock’s mind was now a little less... antsy. Less chaotic. Even Sherlock Holmes falls prey to the craving of physical contact, occasionally.

“Well, if you’re ever in town again, it would be wonderful if we could cross paths. Grab a drink. Get dinner, perhaps?”

He responds with a brilliant, false grin as he finishes dressing, then leaves, closing the door behind him to find Lorenzo Alfonsi, his next target. 

~

**14th February 2013**

“I’ve met someone.”

He pauses, as though awaiting a response. He wonders what Sherlock would say if he were actually here; probably something dismissive and insulting. Perhaps he’d sulk that John hasn’t waited long enough to fully mourn his death before moving on. John would give anything to hear whatever he’d have to say. He settles for silence. He shouldn’t expect anything less from a headstone as a conversation partner.

“Her name is Mary Morstan, if you were wondering. You probably weren’t. We met at work - she recently joined us as the new nurse. I think you’d like her, you know. She’s smart and funny. A bit mysterious, but then again, we’ve only been going out a month. 

“It’s Valentine’s day, by the way. I’ve pulled out all the stops - fancy restaurant, card, pair of earrings as a gift. Expensive ones, too. You would have criticised them but they’re actually quite nice. I think. But the reason I’m telling you this is that I think that things are actually getting serious between us. Long term.

“So yeah. That’s just an update. I think - I think I won’t be coming back here for a while. Can’t have you interrupting my dates. Like you used to. Except Ella would say this time, it’s just a ‘manifestation of my guilt’ and my ‘fear of commitment’ making me think of you so much. Bloody therapists, think they know everything, eh? So yeah. For now, I’m going to move on. With Mary. My girlfriend. So. See you soon.”

With one final touch of his fingers to the top of the headstone, he walks away.

~

A sharp punch to the cheekbone.

“Who do you work for?!” 

A blow to the temple.

“Who sent you here?!”

A shove to the cold stone floor.

“How did you hear about this organisation?!”

A harsh kick to the stomach.

“What do you know?!”

Punch, blow, kick. Wash, rinse, repeat. He’s becoming quite tired of the whole routine now, and not just with this one man, the Russian drug smuggler and key asset of Moriarty currently beating him up, but with everyone he’s encountered: the American crime syndicate leaders, the human traffickers in New Zealand, the blackmailers in Beijing - one by one, Sherlock found all of them, and they immediately responded with beatings and torture. 

Good, he thinks. They’re getting paranoid and defensive, which means they’ll grow careless and he’s getting closer to finally coming home.

He spits out his blood onto the floor and stares defiantly back at the man, even with his vision slightly blurred. (Damn, concussion.) With any luck, he’ll find Sherlock to be a hopeless case and take a break for a little while, long enough for Sherlock to figure out a plan of escape. “I don’t work for anyone. I don’t know anything,” he says weakly.

“What do you _know_ ,” he repeats with a growl. He draws his hand back to strike him again, a killer blow that would likely cause severe head trauma later on with such a wound, when Sherlock cuts across him - 

“I know about your gambling addiction, and that your wife is pregnant with another man’s child. That you can’t afford to pay your rent and electric anymore, and you’re now relying on your sister’s generosity to get by.”

“WHAT?!”

“I also know the numbers for the lottery next week.” Lies. But he’s caught his attention now. “Five hundred thousand rubles, I believe it’s worth. Should be enough to put a dent in your debt and start to live independently from your sister. As a real _man_ should.” He may not care much for such a trivial idea, but the man is clearly riled up enough by the insinuation to take a chance.

“What are the numbers.”

He swallows, gets his breath back and fights the urge to pass out from his raging headache. Behind his back, his fingers twist and struggle against the ropes binding his hands. The knots are by no means amature, but it shouldn’t take long to release them. “Five, seventeen…” he coughs and shudders.

“Speak up!”

“Twenty…” it comes out as a faint whisper. The man loses patience. He roughly grabs Sherlock’s hair and pulls him up to his knees. Right where Sherlock wants him.

“SPEAK!” 

In a flash, Sherlock sharply headbutts the man with a sickening thud and leaves him unconscious. His head throbs in protest: definitely concussed now.

He finishes undoing the ropes and waits a moment to make certain that the guard outside hadn’t been alerted, then puts on the man’s jacket, trousers, and hat, tucking his now overgrown hair inside. He doesn’t much resemble the man, but he has faith that the guard outside won’t bother looking too closely. For good measure, he takes the gun from his newly required jacket and shoots the man in the head. When he walks out of the cell, he doesn’t look back.

Now all there is to do is find the main office, destroy the mainframe of the computer, take out every single person in the building, and make an escape. Where to? A hospital would be ideal, but not good for remaining hidden from pursuing enemies. Is there a safe house nearby? Not for miles. Hotel? Would ask questions about his injuries and probably wouldn’t have the medical resources he needs to recover.

“You need to take care of yourself more,” the John in his head tuts. He glares back.

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. You’re no use to anyone dead. Besides, I doubt you want our reunion to be with you in a body bag, do you?”

“No.”

“Exactly. You’re injured, you’re hungry, and you’re dehydrated: your priority is clean water. Go from there.”

“Oi! Freeze!”

Bugger.

He runs. His lungs burn and his head throbs and his feet sting on the cold gravel, but he runs. He has no direction planned, except to safety, away from the men shooting at him. He finds his way outside, to a cluster of trees several hundred yards away from the compound (could be a forest. Can’t tell. Can’t think.)

He runs until his legs collapse underneath him and he rests against the trunk of a tree deep within the forest, when the men’s yelling and the dogs’ barking is off in the distance and becoming faint. It’s starting to snow now; good for the view, not so good for his bare feet. 

His last thought before he falls asleep is of the hearth at Baker Street, of the faint orange glow, and John’s warm, steady hands as he methodically stitches up his wounds in front of the fire.

Soon, he promises himself. Just three more targets to go.

~

 **14th february 2014**

19:26 Hey. You busy?

19:28 Not especially. Why? SH

19:29 Good. I was thinking maybe you’d like to come around for a drink? Just for a bit.

19:31 It’s Valentine’s day. SH

19:31 So?

19:31 Don’t you have a fiancee to be having drinks with? SH

19:32 She’s gone out with some friends. One of them has had a bad break up. 

19:33 Ah. SH

19:34 What?

19:34 Nothing. SH

19:34 I can hear you thinking through your phone. Go on. 

19:35 The old Sherlock would never have hesitated to say his thoughts on a couple who spend Valentine’s day with friends instead of each other.

[unsent] I’m not the old Sherlo

19:37 I spent all day with the two of you yesterday planning your wedding. I can assure you there’s nothing to observe. You’re both very happy together. SH

19:38 Yeah. Thanks.

19:39 You would tell me, right? If we weren’t?

19:39 Why wouldn’t you be? SH

19:40 I don’t know. It’s just nice having a bit of pre-warning.

19:41 The old John would have said it’s not kind to point out flaws in other people’s relationships. SH

19:41 Yeah, well, I’m starting to see the benefits of things not being hidden from me

19:42 Sorry. SH

19:42 It’s alright. I forgive you, remember? You did it to save me

19:43 I still hurt you and kept it from you. Sh

19:44 Forget it. What’s done is done. We’re starting a new chapter soon.

19:45 Anyway, you never said. Can you come over?

19:46 Of course. I’ll come round now have a colour scheme for the wedding I wish to discuss with you. SH

19:47 Nope. No wedding talk. 

[unsent] Just the two of us tonight. Please

19:47 Fine. As you wish. SH

[unsent] You remember that? From the film I made you watch? Do you remember what it means?

19:48 See you soon

~

**14th February 2015**

“Well, ten months is pretty good. People get divorced way before then, right?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t know about divorce, but a man once murdered his wife in cold blood within three weeks of marriage, so I think you did quite well to last as long as you did.”

John sniggers, almost spilling his drink onto his chair as he does so. “Yeah. I bet the murder guy’s wife didn’t lie about her identity and where she went every night, shoot his best friend and fake an entire pregnancy.”

“Well, not exactly,” Sherlock smiles. “But she did bully him when they were in high school. When they reconnected twenty years later, he started plotting her murder. Marrying her was just part of his long term plan. Almost admirable.”

John can’t help but agree. Slightly. He’s drunk, not a psychopath. Not that Sherlock’s one either. Psychopaths aren’t sweet and let you come home after your divorce, or hug you when you come to the earth-shattering realisation that your chance to be a dad has been and gone, or offer to drink your troubles away with you. “Anyway, we’re getting off task. Never have I ever... ridden a motorbike.”

“Oh, come on.” Sherlock takes a swig of his drink. “You obviously knew that already. Mary told you.”

“Yeah, so? You’re allowed to say stuff you already know.”

“I thought the point of this was to get to know each other.”

“No, the point is to get your friends pissed enough to admit to something embarrassing or sexual. Or both. By any means necessary.”

Sherlock’s look turns from curious to scarily calculating, his eyes narrowing, his lips curled into a smirk. Something unnameable shoots down John’s spine. “I see. Then never have I ever gone to war.”

John downs his drink without protest. “Never have I ever solved a murder.”

Drink. “Never have I ever been married.”

Drink. “Never have I ever thrown up at a crime scene.”

He glares. “I thought we agreed never to discuss that.”

John grins. “I agreed no such thing. Drink.” 

He complies. “Never have I ever had a girlfriend.”

“Alright. But that means you have to take a shot too.”

“What? No. That’s not fair.”

“Yeah. If you give a ‘never have I ever’ you’ve actually done, you have to take a shot. Rules are rules.”

Sherlock scowls, his bottom lip protruding into a pout but pours some more whiskey into his glass and takes a swig. “It doesn’t even count. It was for the Magnussen case.”

“Well, the newspapers would say otherwise,” John points out, something bitter curling in his stomach at the memory of Janine’s smug face plastered over every tabloid paper, the headlines in bold and their accusations. He didn’t believe any of it for one second, but sometimes he did wonder how far Sherlock let things get simply for a case, and yes, the idea did make him mildly jealous. So what?

“All lies. We kissed, nothing more.”

“What? But…” He frowns, remembering the unsubtle splashes and giggles from the bathroom, the vile, exaggerated wet sounds of their kiss before Janine left for work. Surely..? “Huh. Guess you’re right, women really aren’t your area.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes as a grin appears. “Excellent deduction. However did you come by such a conclusion?”

“Oi, piss off, we’re not all world-class detectives. I just figured if a beautiful woman can get into a bath with you - y’know, _naked_ and everything -” the two of them giggle like schoolboys at the idea, “- and you still don’t want to shag her, you’d have to be pretty gay.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe I would simply prefer a normal, relaxing bath, free of disturbances. Or bodily fluids.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the thought and John has to laugh. Oh, the hypocrisy.

“Since when were you conscious of bodily fluids?”

“Since it came to the idea of me being in a bath with them.”

“So, even if, say, a _man_ joined you...?”

Sherlock shakes his head, pulling a face. “I probably wouldn’t like it. Baths are for cleanliness. It seems counterproductive to initiate that sort of thing in there.”

“Shame. It’s really quite good. You’re missing out. You’d have to try it sometime.”

Sherlock freezes, blinking in surprise at John’s casual admission. John himself stares back, defiant, challenging, chin up, still smiling. _Alright, so we’re at_ that _level of drunk now._ “Seriously?” Sherlock says finally. “You think it’s ‘good’? You couldn’t even stand it when I put my toenail experiment in the bath.”

“Because that experiment was disgusting. But if a real, human person, got into a bath with me - “

“Person?” He repeats

“Yeah.”

“Any person. Of any kind.”

“That’s generally what I meant.”

“With any... certain features. Physically speaking.” His cheeks turn entertainingly pink. If this is all it takes to get Sherlock to blush, he’d have to discuss this sort of thing more often.

“We’ve established that already. Yeah. If any person joined me…” John shrugs. “I wouldn’t say no.”

Sherlock turns even more red, a flush spreading from below his neck to his head, and downs the last of his drink. “I think we’re onto the next level of Never Have I Never, then. No more things we already know about each other.”

“Agreed. My turn…”

~

**14th February 2016**

“You imbecile! You complete and utter imbecile!”

“I know, know. You’ve said that already. I get it now,” John grumbles. Sherlock wants to strangle him. Or let go of his waist so that he falls down the stairs and would have to make his way up himself. That would teach him. But unfortunate, he can’t bring himself to want John to hurt himself any more than he already is. 

“Do you, though? I thought some things were obviously worth repeating. Like not running towards a group of criminals when I specifically told you to wait!”

“You forget, Sherlock, that I was in the army. I was a _captain._ I can make my own tactical decisions, without you telling me what to do.”

“And you forget that I know these criminals. I knew it would be better to wait and I was right. Some soldier you must have been, if you can’t even follow instructions properly,” Sherlock sneers. John responds with a withering glare.

“They seemed like bad instructions at the time.” 

They finally get up the stairs into their flat, where Sherlock deposits John onto the sofa, who hisses through his teeth as he sits down. “Trousers off. You’re bleeding through them,” he orders, then turns towards the bathroom to get the emergency medical kit. Bandages, antiseptics, painkillers, all present. Would John need stitches? Unlikely, but then again, he was stabbed. 

Stabbed. The word repeats over and over in his head like a tune, a taunting sing-song that makes his stomach twist. God, he’s furious with him. He’s terrified. He hasn’t stopped shaking since he heard John’s cry of pain as he ran after him in the warehouse. It could have been worse, but it was merely luck that the knife didn’t find its place somewhere more dangerous, closer to a major artery or organ. He doesn’t like relying on luck for anything.

Taking a steadying breath, he comes back into the living room, where John is sitting in his underwear now, his hand covering the knife wound on his thigh. It’s not bleeding too heavily, but it’s blood that shouldn't even be outside his body. Not one drop of it. Sherlock kneels in front of him and gets out the antiseptic wipes, as John has many times before: after scuffles on cases or chemical experiments gone wrong. He’s angry, but he wipes the wound clean with undivided attention and gentleness, lest John is hurt even more. 

“This isn’t necessary,” John protests, but it’s weak and barely above a whisper. Sherlock tries not to think about the precarious position he’s in, kneeling between John’s legs, gaze pointedly directed at the wound just above John’s knee.

“Perhaps. But apparently so is listening what I have to say.”

“Maybe if you bothered to explain your plans I would have agreed to stay put! I’m not a mind reader, you know.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Sherlock raises his voice, looking up and glaring into John’s eyes. “You don’t think I already blame myself every time you get hurt?”

His face softens, becomes frustratingly confused. “What?”

“It’s always me. It’s always my enemies, my cases that hurt you. Everytime you get kidnapped, or stabbed, or placed into a semtex vest, or thrown into a bonfire, it’s all due to your association with me,” he spits. “And every time, I always wonder, what will be the final straw that takes you away from me?”

“Sherlock, you’re being ridiculous. It’ll take more than a couple of criminals to kill me off.”

“Maybe. But -” he gives a grunt of frustration. Damn his hands for trembling. Damn his eyes for tearing up and blurring his vision. “What will it take to get you to want to leave?” Selfish, selfish, selfish.

For a moment there’s just silence while Sherlock finishes bounding John’s leg. John doesn’t speak, but Sherlock can hear the cogs whirring in his brain, clicking into place. This is it, he thinks. Our last conversation together as friends will be with John with a gaping wound in his leg. Surprisingly fitting. 

“There. Done,” he says as he stands up. “Anything else? Water? A blanket? Painkillers?”

“Sherlock - “

“You can take my bed, if you wish. It would save you the effort of getting up in the night, at least. I can stay on the sofa - “

“Sherlock!” John grabs his wrist, just as Sherlock is about to escape into the kitchen. He looks up with pleading eyes. “Stay. Talk.” 

Both of those instructions sound terrifying, but he’s never been good at saying no to John. He nods and sits down beside him, deciding is flight or fight instinct can wait for now. 

“First of all,” John begins. “You have to stop this self-flagellation act. I’m fine. I’ve known you for six years now, and the only bad thing that has happened is a slight cut.”

“You were stabbed.”

“ _Lightly_ stabbed,” he corrects. “Second of all. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

“Well, you say that now, but - “

“No, I mean it.” He takes Sherlock’s hand in both of his. _What?_ “There’s nothing that you could do that could possibly put me off. Yeah, you’re a bit annoying when you experiment with body parts and play violin in the middle of the night and don’t tell me what’s going on in cases. But you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Bar none. I’m not going to leave you. Not for anything.” 

“Not even - ?”

“No. Nothing. You’re it for me.” John shifts closer, cups Sherlock’s cheek in one hand and strokes his cheekbone with his thumb. Sherlock forgets how to breathe. “I don’t want anything else. I want _you._ ”

Oh. Oh…

“You want me?”

“Yeah. In pretty much every sense imaginable, if it’s acceptable.”

Sherlock nods frantically, embarrassingly eager. (Can’t bring himself to care.) “It’s acceptable.”

So John kisses him. It’s soft and tender, surprisingly so, considering how pumped full of adrenaline they both were a few minutes ago, but it leaves Sherlock’s heart racing beneath his chest. It’s uncertain and tentative on both ends, but growing more assured by the second that this is right, and this is how it’s meant to be. Just the two of them against the rest of the world.

“John,” Sherlock speaks first when they separate, voice rough. He clears his throat. “You do realise how cliche this is.”

“What is?”

“Having our first kiss on Valentine’s day.”

John grins. “How about second kisses? Is that cliche?”

Oh, he’s good. But then again, with a nickname like ‘Three Continents Watson’, he shouldn’t be surprised. “No.”

“Good.”

He stops counting after that.

~

**14th February 2017**

“Morning, love.”

“Hnnng. No.”

“Hey, don’t be like that. I’ve got a busy day planned ahead.”

“Ugh. Don’t care. I’d rather stay in bed.”

“Now, that’s a first. Up. Out from under the duvet. It will be worth it, I promise.”

“I think _I’ll_ decide if there’s anything worth getting up for. What do you have planned?”

“Git. Okay, so first I thought we could have pancakes for breakfast.”

“Oh. Like when we first moved moved in?”

“Exactly. Then, if we wanted, we could go for a walk. Maybe have a couple of drinks at a bar.”

“Oh?”

“Then I have a table booked at that Thai restaurant you wanted to try.”

“Sounds... acceptable.”

“After that, I have two tickets to a music concert. Nothing fancy, you probably haven’t even heard of it. I have the tickets here -”

“TCHAIKOVSKY?!”

“Ssh! The neighbours could be having sleeping still! They’ve already complained twice - ”

“You got us tickets to Tchaikovsky’s concerto?”

“Yup.”

“But... the tickets were sold out weeks ago!”

“Good thing I bought them months ago, then.”

“John... I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I love you, and I want to spoil you today.”

“What about you? It’s _our anniversary._ I should be spoiling you too.”

“Well, funny you mention that, I was rather hoping that after our date, you could run us a bath?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Bubbles, bath oils, candles... the whole shebang. Now, I know baths aren’t really your thing - ”

“No, no, I’d be amendable to that. They’re starting to grow on me a little.”

“Great. Now get dressed. Breakfast first, as promised.”

“Wait! I don’t suppose we could... postpone breakfast for a little bit?”

“Really? But I was really looking forward to those pancakes…”

“ _John._ ”

“Fine, I suppose we can stay in bed for a little while. Honestly, the things I do for you…”

“I know, I know. I’m very lucky.”

“Nah. I'm the lucky one here. Happy anniversary, love.”

“Happy anniversary.”


End file.
